Thieves World

Hanse left the palace wearing a soft new tunic, eyes narrowed. Planning, calculating. Plotting.

THE PRICE OF DOING BUSINESS by Robert Lynn Asprin

Jubal was more powerful than he appeared. Not that his form conveyed any softness or weakness. If anything, his shiny ebony skin stretched tight over lithe, firm muscles gave an immediate impression of quick strength, while his scarred, severe facial features indicated a mind which would not hesitate to use that strength to his own advantage.

Rather, it was his wealth and the shrewd mind that had accumulated it which gave Jubal power above and beyond his iron muscles and razor-edged sword. His money, and the fierce entourage of sell-swords it had bought him made him a formidable force in the social order of Sanctuary.

Blood had been the price of his freedom; great quantities of blood shed by his opponents in the gladiator pits of Ranke. Blood, too, had given him his start at wealth: seizing a poorly guarded slave caravan for later sale at a sinful profit.

Where others might be content with modest gains, Jubal continued to amass his fortune with fanatic intensity. He had learned a dear lesson while glaring through hate-slitted eyes at the crowds who cheered his gory pit victories: swords and those who wielded them were bought and sold, and thus accounted as nothing in the minds of Society. Money and Power, not skill and courage, were what determined one's standing in the social order of men. It was fear which determined who spat and who wiped in his world.

So Jubal stalked the world of merchants as he had stalked the pits, ruthlessly pouncing on each opportunity and vulnerability as he had pitilessly cut down crippled opponents in the past. To enter into a deal with Jubal was to match wits with a mind trained to equate failure with death.

With this attitude, Jubal's concerns prospered and flourished in Sanctuary. With the first of his profits, he purchased one of the old mansions to the west of town. There he resided like a bloated spider in a web, waiting for signs of new opportunities. His fangs were his sell-swords, who swaggered through the streets of Sanctuary, their features disguised by blue hawk-masks. His web was a network of informants, paid to pass the word of any incident, any business deal, or any shift in local politics, which might be of interest to their generous master.

Currently the network was humming with word of the cataclysm in town. The Rankan prince and his new ideas were shaking the very roots of Sanctuary's economic and social structure.

Jubal sat at the centre of his web and listened.

*

After a while, the status reports all began to run together, forming one boring monotone.

Jubal slouched in his throne-like chair staring vacantly at one of the room's massive incense burners, bought in an unsuccessful attempt to counter the stench carried from Sanctuary by the easterly winds. Still the reports droned on. Things had been different when he was just beginning. Then he had been able to personally manage the various facets of his growing enterprises. Now, he had to listen while others ... Something in the report caught his attention.

'Who did you kill?' he demanded.

'A blind,' Saliman repeated, blinking at the interruption. 'An informer who was not an informer. It was done to provide an example ... as you ordered.'

'Of course.' Jubal waved. 'Continue.'

He relied heavily on informants from the town for the data necessary to conduct his affairs. It was known that if one sold false information to Jubal, one was apt to be found with a slit throat and a copper piece clenched between the teeth. This was known because it happened ... frequently. What was not widely known was that if Jubal felt his informants needed an example to remind them of the penalty for selling fabrications, he would order his men to kill someone at random and leave the body with the marks of a false informer. His actual informers were not targets for these examples - good informants were hard to find. Instead, someone would be chosen who had n;ver dealt with Jubal. As his informants did not know each other's identities, the example would work.

'... was found this morning.' Saliman plodded on in his tireless recitation voice. 'The coin was stolen by the person discovering the body, so there will be no investigation. The thief will talk, though, so word will spread.'

'Yes, yes.' Jubal grimaced impatiently. 'Go on with another item.'

'There is some consternation along the Avenue of Temples over the new shrines being erected to Savankala and Sabellia -'

'Does it affect our operations?' Jubal interrupted.

'No,' Saliman admitted. 'But I thought you should know.'

'Now I know,' Jubal countered. 'Spare me the details. Next item.'

'Two of our men were refused service at the Vulgar Unicorn last night.'

'By who?' Jubal frowned.

'One-Thumb. He oversees the place evenings from -'

'I know who One-Thumb is!' Jubal snapped. 'I also know he's never refused service to any of my men as long as they had gold and their manners were good. If he moved against two of mine, it was because of their own actions, not because he has ill feelings towards me. Next item.'

Saliman hesitated to reorganize his thoughts, then continued.

'Increased pressure from the prince's Hell Hounds has closed the wharves to the smugglers. It is rumoured they will be forced to land their goods at the Swamp of Night Secrets as they did in the old days.'

'An inconvenience which will doubtless drive their prices up,' Jubal mused. 'How well guarded are their landings?'

'It is not known.'

'Look into it. If there's a chance we can intercept a few shipments in the Swamp, there'll be no reason to pay their inflated prices at the bazaar.'

'But if the smugglers lose shipments, they will raise their prices all the more to recover the loss.'

'Of course.' Jubal smiled. 'Which means when we sell the stolen goods, we will be able to charge higher prices and still undercut the smugglers.'

'We shall investigate the possibility. But -'

'But what?' Jubal inquired, studying his lieutenant's face. 'Out with it, man. Something's bothering you about my plan, and I want to know what it is.'

'I fear we might encounter difficulty with the Hell Hounds,' Saliman blurted. 'If they have also heard rumours of the new landing sites, they might plan an ambush of their own. Taking a shipment away from smugglers is one thing, but trying to take confiscated evidence away from the Hell Hounds ... I'm not sure the men are up to it.'

'My men? Afraid of guardsmen?' Jubal's expression darkened. 'I thought I was paying good gold to have the finest swords in Sanctuary at my disposal.'

'The Hell Hounds are not ordinary guardsmen,' Saliman protested. 'Nor are they from Sanctuary. Before they arrived, I would have said ours were the finest swords. Now ...'

'The Hell Hounds!' Jubal snarled. 'It seems all anyone can talk about is the Hell Hounds.'

'And you should listen.' Saliman bristled. 'Forgive me, Jubal, but you yourself admit the men you hire are no newcomers to battle. When they speak of a new force at large in Sanctuary, you should listen instead of decrying their judgement or abilities.'

For a moment, a spark of anger flared in Jubal's eyes. Then it died, and he leaned forward attentively in his chair.

'Very well, Saliman. I'm listening. Tell me about the Hell Hounds.'

'They ... they are unlike the guardsmen we see in Sanctuary, or even the average soldier of the Rankan army.' Saliman explained, groping for words. 'They were handpicked from the Royal Elite Guard especially for this assignment.'

'Five men to guard a royal prince.' Jubal murmured thoughtfully. 'Yes, they would have to be good.'